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March 18, 2002 Issue

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  • Books & the Arts

  • Messenger

    The birds stopped coming after the annuals died.
    I didn't realize how much I missed them until the bluebird

    Returned, lured by the burgundy haze of the fall pansies
    Pouring from the window boxes. I was too slow finding

    The camera and then I left the cap on. The bird rose
    Into a cut of sky and I was left with a vision of blue--

    His sapphire eye and marigold breast. Maybe it was you,
    Released from your standing body--fingers fluid between

    Tissue and organ--as you operate in the crowded surgical
    Theatre, transformed to tell me autumn is here. I would not

    Be surprised. This brief visit imitates your frequent calls
    Between cases. After he flies, the room seems to hold you.

    I see the white waves throwing themselves into the Cliffs
    Of Moher, your eyes stealing blue from the sky.

    Jennifer Franklin

  • The Still Bad New Old Nixon

    It's been three decades since President Richard M.

    Robert Scheer
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